A change was coming upon the glen.  The sun had passed; it shone now only on the tree-tops.  But the sky above was blue and warm as ever.

“Another thing,” she pursued, more gravely.  “My father——­”

Piers waited a moment, then said with eyes downcast: 

“He does not think well of me?”

“That is my grief, and my trouble.  However, not a serious trouble.  Of you, personally, he has no dislike; it was quite the opposite when he met you; when you dined at our house—­you remember?  He said things of you I am not going to repeat, sir.  It was only after the disaster which involved your name.  Then he grew prejudiced.”

“Who can wonder?”

“It will pass over.  My father is no stage-tyrant.  If he is not open to reason, what man living is?  And no man has a tenderer heart.  He was all kindness and forbearance and understanding when I did a thing which might well have made him angry.  Some day you shall see the letter he wrote me, when I had run away to Paris.  In it, he spoke, as never to me before, of his own marriage—­of his love for my mother.  Every word remains in my memory, but I can’t trust my voice to repeat them, and perhaps I ought not—­even to you.”

“May I go to him, and speak for myself?”

“Yes—­but not till I have seen him.”

“Can’t I spare you that?” said Piers, in a voice which, for the first time, sounded his triumphant manhood.  “Do you think I fear a meeting with your father, or doubt of its result?  If I had gone merely on my own account, to try to remove his prejudice and win his regard, it would have been a different thing; indeed, I could never have done that; I felt too keenly his reasons for disliking me.  But now!  In what man’s presence should I shrink, and feel myself unworthy?  You have put such words into my heart as will gain my cause for me the moment they are spoken.  I have no false shame—­no misgivings.  I shall speak the truth of myself and you, and your father will hear me.”

Irene listened with the love-light in her hazel eyes; the face she turned upon him brought back a ray of sunshine to the slowly shadowing glen.

“I will think till to-morrow,” she said.  “Come to the Castle to-morrow morning, and I shall have settled many things.  But now we must go; Helen will wonder what has become of me; I didn’t tell her I was going out.”

He bent over her hand; she did not withdraw it from him as they walked through the bracken, and beneath the green boughs, and picked their way over the white stones of the rushing beck.

At the road, they parted.

An hour after sunset, Piers was climbing the hillside towards the Castle, now a looming shape against a sky still duskily purpled from the west.  He climbed slowly, doubting at each step whether to go nearer, or to wave his hand and turn.  Still, he approached.  In the cottages a few lights were seen; but no one moved; there was no voice.  His own footstep on the sward fell soundless.